Life feels empty,
Great stone corridors devoid of anything,
Depression, it seems, is quite trendy,
Deep in the tomb, burying.
Writing from an emotional place,
Sometimes forges the best art,
I wouldn’t know fine art if it hit me in the face,
How long are we to be apart?
How deep does despair go,
I don’t think I’ll even know,
Not so long as I’m falling, falling, falling,
The silence of the grave is a siren’s calling.
I once thought I had the key,
The key meant to set me free.
Ryan S. Kinsgrove
Tis better to have loved and lost,
Than never to have loved at all.
–Alfred Lord Tennyson
Or so renaissance poets say,
Claiming to not love is like a winter frost,
Their poets though, don’t they truly know the way,
Have you ever loved and lost?
I have, and it cuts me deep,
Like a knife slicing down to bone,
It left me piled up in a heap,
Lost, bleeding, and all alone.
Now I sit in my dark corner,
Trying to remember the feeling of life,
I cry like I’m a lost lonely mourner,
Wishing I could sing to my darling wife on a fife.
The horizon lies so far in the distance,
Does anyone truly rely on my existence?